Week 2 - dreamshare catchall with Sandalphon

[fragileprophet]

[The week is filled with dreams.]

Comments

MONDAY

[fragileprophet]

[These memories come together in the stream-of-consciousness style of a newborn. You know nothing, but you know that you don't know these things.

You don't know where you are, who you are, how to speak, how to move. You want to cry for no reason other than that its scary not to know, so you do, but it's a numb feeling, the water on your cheeks. The sounds around you are frightening in their unknown ambiguity. The stone is cold beneath your naked body.

You lift your hands in front of your face. Why did they put you in chains? They make your wrists hurt. There is nobody here to answer your questions, but you don't know the words to ask them. When there are people, they regard you impassively, talking in words that sound like sludge in your new ears, thick and terrible and mean.

You're lifted up by your arms and removed from your cell, your footsteps weak and clumsy. Where are they taking you? What do they want? Scared, you're so scared, and you pass cell after cell of little green-haired boys who look just the same as one another. Do you look like that, too?

For days you're made to do things without explanation, things that confuse you, but you somehow know how to do if you just mimic the actions of another one of those green-haired boys. There's something in his eyes that you don't like, and every time you do what they want, your body gets so weak that you can't lift yourself up off the ground. What is this? Why is this?

The green haired boys are gone from their cells now. You wonder where they went. You wonder when the floor got so red.]

1/2

[melancoffeea]

[You're in an enclosed garden, where the gentle breeze caresses your cheeks and the fragrance of blooming flowers tickles your nose. Before you, across an elegant table, sits your maker: radiant as always, his majestic wings spread behind him—Lucifer.

You watch as Lucifer takes a sip of coffee, your shoulders tensed in anticipation. You've spent countless hours practicing this brew, in the hopes that he'll enjoy the fruits of your labor. You watch his face for a reaction, but, as usual, his countenance is one of serenity.

"This is very good," he tells you. "Really?" you ask, your heart skipping a beat in elation.

He suggests that you try some yourself. You obey, eager to taste the result of your hard work—but the second that familiar warmth trickles down your throat, a sting of disappointment cuts through you. It's passable, nothing like the coffee he makes.

You're told that you're too hard on yourself, but you insist that you need more practice. After all, Lucifer deserves so much more than you're able to give.

"Invite me, the next time you practice. I'll be happy to help," he says.

Whatever this feeling is, it wells inside your heart and spreads to every fiber of your being. You are humbled, honored that Lucifer would choose to spend his precious time with you. You say his name reverently . . . ]

[melancoffeea]

[Sandalphon wakes up. His eyes snapping open, he lies there in bed, stunned by the dream that remains disturbingly vivid in his mind.

A green-haired boy. He, and the others, looked just like—Sandalphon turns his head to where Ion should be slumbering next to him. Is Ion awake?]

[fragileprophet]

[At first it might not be clear--but he stirs, his movements as characteristically slight as ever, and then he, too, is turning to look at his partner. Surprise is clear in his eyes when he sees that Sandalphon had the same idea, and he gives him a smile.]

Good morning.

[He decides, for just a moment, to keep his dream to himself. He keeps thinking about those wings. How strange.]

[melancoffeea]

[He can't say that he feels the same way about the morning, but it would be impolite to say otherwise. He nods and returns the greeting softly as he scoots to sit up.]

Good morning. Did you sleep well?

[fragileprophet]

Yes...I think so.

[Ion begins to sit up as well, keeping the blanket around him as he does.]

I had...a dream, I think it was about you. Actually, it felt more like a memory than a dream.

[melancoffeea]

[His eyes widen, his blood running cold.]

A memory . . . ? [The next question comes out hastily.] What did you see?

TUESDAY

[fragileprophet]

[You're seated on the Cathedral's stage in a grand chair. Your Fon Master's staff is resting across your legs, and you hold a letter in your small hands. You read the words from the Emperor of Malkuth and you're struck by their sincerity. They're not those of a politician scrawling empty promises, but a simple man who wishes for peace. This is good. As you finish, you look with a smile at the man on his knees before you, awaiting your response.

Colonel Curtiss, I can tell that His Majesty wrote this from the bottom of his heart. I can see why his citizens love him so dearly...this is truly wonderful.

He looks at you, puzzled, and you wonder for a moment if you've said something wrong...but then he smiles, too, relieved. He tells you he is reassured by your words. You don't have time to bask in the feeling, because the man standing beside you interrupts, snapping at the Colonel to leave the letter. The Fon Master needs his rest, he says.

A piece of your heart shrivels as you remember your place, and you lapse into obedient silence as Colonel Curtiss takes his leave.

He lectures you about the importance of neutrality. You feel a spark of encouragement, and timidly try: Emperor Peony only wants peace between both Malkuth and Kimlasca. I...agree with him.

It wasn't the right thing to say. Grand Maestro Mohs turns to you, his eyes full of hatred. He isn't looking at his Fon Master. He isn't looking at a person at all. He's looking at an insect. A wretch. Something he wishes he could squash under his fist. It hurts to look at him as he tells you you are to take no action in this matter. Your purpose is to sign documents, and smile at the people...and take plenty of rests.

You know what he's telling you to do is go back to your room in the Cathedral's tower. It's an unspoken threat of what you may suffer if you dare to come out. So you go.

The next day, a pigtailed girl brings you a tray of food, here to visit you during your confinement. You know that by now, Colonel Curtiss has left, rejected despite your wishes. War will surely come. You hate this. Softly, you ask her:

Anise, am I making a mistake?

She jumps quickly to the defense of the Grand Maestro. Another piece of your heart withers as you turn away from her and stare out the window at the townspeople down below. They look like ants from up here. Suddenly, she speaks again. She tells you how scared the people are for war. She tells you it's stressful. She tells you that the only thing that keeps the people around here smiling is you, and your happy presence. Why?

It's because they have faith and respect in their Fon Master Ion.

You make a choice, right then. You know in your heart that you are not the one deserving of those feelings. You're a peon, a puppet, a figurehead of nothing.

But you love them. You love each and every one of them.

You want to pay them back for those feelings.

You run away.

It's a heart-pounding affair, running away. You've never rebelled, not once. You scale down the side of the building with Anise, and Colonel Curtiss spirits you away in a boat--you pass out when you have to use a powerful arte to escape pursuers.

But you come to and you're in a new bed, on a new vessel, and Colonel Curtiss, though he admonishes you for your recklessness and you can't help but apologize, asks you to trust him to protect you--he tells you that you're important, and not for the Score, or for being the Fon Master, but because your kind heart can save the people from a war.

Your heart is brimming. Before you know it, you're laughing. They don't understand why, and you can't tell them. You can't tell them who you really are, or why this means so much, how scared you've felt each moment that you've been on this world, so you tell them just one thing that only seems to confuse them further:

This is the most excited I've been in my whole life!

From this day forward, your actions are your own.]

1/2

[melancoffeea]

[You lack the concept of time. How long has it been since you were created? Months? Years, decades—perhaps even centuries? You don’t know. The days are constantly blurring together.

You snap your head up at the call of your name. Your stomach drops when you recognize the researcher, who beckons you over with a flick of his wrist. His detached eyes appraise you as he speaks to you in a cold, droning voice. It’s your turn.

Screams echo in the lab. Are they yours, or are they the anguished cries of the other self-aware subjects?

As always, you find yourself unable to comprehend what’s going on when the experiments begin. You cannot think. All you know is an intense, indescribable pain burning through every fiber of your being as your body is poked, prodded, churned inside out, and manipulated to the research team’s fancy.

Your overwhelmed mind begs for release, but it doesn’t stop. It never stops until the researchers decide that they’ve had their fill. You are powerless. So you endure, even if you happen to pass out in the middle of everything.

The researchers leave you to yourself once they finish playing with you, and you feel like a broken toy held together by a fraying thread. Amid the throbbing pain, your weary thoughts drift back to their usual place. Why are you here? For what reason do you exist in this hell? Will you ever be more than an object without a purpose, despite possessing self-awareness?

Your arms and legs tremble as they struggle to hold you up. Once you feel well enough to walk again, you wander the lab with heavy shoulders.

You walk.

And walk.

And walk.

Then you spot a flash of white in the distance.

A burst of excitement ignites in your core. You smile as you scuttle down the hall, all of your hurts forgotten.

“Lucifer!”]

[melancoffeea]

[This time, his awakening is a gradual process accompanied by a rested feeling. Sandalphon's eyes open slowly to a view of the ceiling, where he keeps them trained for a precious moment. The joy from the dream seeps away with every second that passes, and he's content to let the emotion run its course.

Before long, he's back to himself. His heart is no longer brimming, but the fondness of the memory remains in his mind as he turns his head in Ion's direction.]

[fragileprophet]

[...but the bed is empty, the blankets tossed in a hurried fashion from the place Ion usually rests, the pillow and sheets soaked from sweat. He hasn't gone far--there are sounds coming from the restroom.

Ion doesn't remember waking up, or leaving his bed. His charged emotions surged his body upward and forward until he was coiled around the toilet and heaving. Spent and trembling, he collapses against the cool floor, hugging himself.

It felt so real, all that pain, but now, now, he just feels so...full of joy.

What is this? In his brief life Ion's only ever had the glimmer of such clashing and charged sensations.

He weeps, but, strangely, he can't stop himself from laughing.]

[melancoffeea]

[If the mess of blankets wasn't worrying enough, the sounds alarm Sandalphon, who all but leaps out of the bed to race to the restroom. He drops to his knees beside Ion, and then freezes when he sees the tears.

Yet Ion is laughing.]

What happened!

[fragileprophet]

I don't...I don't know, I...

[He tries to blink past his tears but they keep coming, and between that and laughing he can hardly catch his breath. Frantically, he tries to wipe his face.]

I'm sorry...I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I don't know what that was.

WEDNESDAY

[fragileprophet]

[Before you, a green-haired soldier falls to his knees, defeated in battle. He was wearing a mask, but it clatters to the ground, and even before he has time to shield his face you know...your suspicions are finally confirmed.

Because he has your face, too.

The others around you startle as they see it, too, so you decide there's no point in hiding this anymore. You sigh, stepping forward.

Just as I thought...you are also a replica of the Fon Master.

The others stare at you, faces torn in shock, so you persist. Your words feel like stones as they echo back in your ears.

I'm Fon Master Ion's seventh replica: the final one. You glance guiltily over your shoulder toward Anise. I'm sorry. It's only been about two years since I was born.

You can tell what she's thinking before she says it: the reason that she was assigned to you so suddenly, the reason the other guardians were dismissed: it's all because you were a fake. It's all been one big lie. The replica on the ground speaks, so you're able to tear your eyes back away from her and face him.

You had the closest abilities to the original unlike us trash.

Your stomach churns in violent discomfort.

Don't call yourself that.

He doesn't even meet your eyes, his teeth gritted in pain and bitterness.

That's what I am. My powers were so weak I was cast alive into the mouth of the Mt. Zaleho volcano. A replica that can't serve as a replacement is nothing more than garbage.

You try again. Desperation claws away at your ribcage.

Don't talk like that. You can come with us--you and I are the same!

You step toward him as he staggers back to his feet and extend him a hand. You hope...you hope...

And he slaps your hand away, angry, hateful. You're used to the hatred of the Grand Maestro, but this is something different. This is an intimate, deep-seeded resentment that is much more personal than a man hating you for what you are. This is someone hating you for everything that you took away from them. Everything you never wanted, and that you can't give back. The sting in your hand travels all the way up your arm.

No, we're not. I'm only alive to be used. Only the useful ones are ever kept alive...out of pity.

You don't know what to say, but you don't have time to react as, without a word, he steps backward, off the edge of the landing you stand on, into a chasm of certain death. Your whole body feels still as you watch the void where the other you once was. Your heart is pounding so badly it hurts, but you don't move. You don't know what to do, what to say. You don't know what you feel. But your eyes are burning and raw, your face hot.

Anise steps forward to examine the spot where Sync once was, then turns to look at you and her face falls.

Ion, please don't cry.

Her words confuse you.

I'm not crying, you assure.

But, those tears...

You lift a hand to your cheek, and find it comes away wet. You still don't know what to say.

I guess I was sad, you decide. This is the first time I've ever cried.

You understand now, this wrenching in your chest. You understand that the fear was never just fear. It was always heartache. Always loneliness. Always sorrow. Always everything terrible all at once.

All this time, I had it wrong.

You shouldn't have been the one they spared.]

1/2

[melancoffeea]

[Lucifer is here again. He asks if you’re doing well, and you answer that nothing’s changed when the icy grip of insecurity snakes around your core. You let the words spill.

“Oh, but there is one thing . . . ” you trail off, suddenly shy about burdening the supreme primarch with your lowly concerns.

“What is it? Are you still contemplating your purpose?”

You nod and explain that all archangels have a purpose—all except for you, who passes each day in peace and quiet. Perhaps this time, you hope, you’ll receive an answer for the reason behind your creation. Instead, Lucifer scowls.

“How many times must I repeat myself? That is not something you should be concerned with.”

And just like that, Lucifer leaves you behind despite the protest that escapes your lips and dies after a word. Dejected, you look down at your feet. You just want to be useful to him.

You wander the lab. Eventually, you come upon Lucifer and a researcher’s discussion of your purpose. You hide behind a pillar, your heart pounding in anticipation.

“He’s your spare in case something happens to you.” The researcher and Lucifer exchange a few words, and the former chuckles. “Realistically speaking, that won’t be necessary. You’ve far surpassed my wildest dreams. Sandalphon is useless. That scrap will be disposed of at an appropriate time. I suppose you may keep him if you’ve grown attached to him.”

Lucifer is speechless. The researcher takes him away to look at another specimen while you lean against the pillar for support. The researcher’s words echo in the empty wasteland of your mind.

You’re useless scrap. A stopgap. Good for nothing. Then why do you still exist?

For years, you’ve prayed that you might be useful to Lucifer someday. That day will never come.

You flee, but not before you start to weep uncontrollably.

Later, a collection of primals who can no longer stand their miserable fate band together to rebel against the researchers. It’s a primitive rampage, void of organized thought and overflowing with desperation. You join them, but not because you’ve grown tired of the experiments; you do so, because you’re a worthless pawn who has no place in Lucifer’s regulated world.

The rebellion fails, in large part due to Lucifer’s awesome power. Those who aren’t massacred, including you, are gathered up and imprisoned in a tower that strips you of your movement and power.

The darkness consumes you for two thousand years. Your anger, your grief, your guilt—innumerable emotions fester in your wretched soul. But you can't cry out; you can only think and drown in your poisonous thoughts for what feels like an eternity.

You want to see him again. You want to hear his voice. You want to meet him in that shaded garden and watch his smile while he brews coffee. You want to prostrate yourself before him and beg his forgiveness for your treason.

But it's too late.

You’ve ruined everything.]

[melancoffeea]

[Sandalphon awakens groggily that morning, his eyes meeting resistance when he opens them slowly. The tears that gathered during the dream have dampened his eyelashes, and they cling to his face. An uncomfortable lump, too, has settled in his throat. He sits up and presses the heels of his hands to his eyes, wiping away the moisture as he sniffles once.

He isn't sad. There's a chasm in his chest as his hands drop and he stares off into space. There isn't a lot to think about. The dream he just had made a twisted amount of sense.

His cheeks burn and he swallows the lump. The rest of him is numb; his mind, painfully sober.]

[fragileprophet]

[Ion isn't exactly sure when he goes from the dream to reality. His mind shakes off the thoughts and the feelings, but still, everything is dark behind his eyelids and he grimaces, afraid to open them...afraid there will only be more darkness.

He feels the blankets and the sheets and the pillow behind his head--and at some point, he feels the soft rustling of Sandalphon beside him as he sits up. Still, Ion steels himself before he finally lets his eyes open.

But he doesn't know if he's relieved. He doesn't know how to react. A part of him feels like he's lived so long--but logically he knows, he's still only so young and so small. His fingers curl around fistfuls of blanket. Eventually...he has to say something. The pervading silence only serves to aggravate a budding sense of anxiety inside of his stomach.]

Sandalphon...

[But the words stop as he stares up at the ceiling, his voice feeling raw.]

[melancoffeea]

[Ion is awake. The call of his name sounds distant as Sandalphon mentally navigates his way back to himself. Unlike the previous dreams, the transition is almost instant.

His gaze still fixed to nowhere, his question comes out as a near mutter.]

What did you see?

[Now, as himself, he has a lot to think about. He can't talk about what he saw yet.]

[fragileprophet]

Mostly darkness.

[A lot of darkness. A lot of raw emotions. But, before that...such terrible words.]

I think I understand things a bit better now.

THURSDAY

[fragileprophet]

[You stand in your room. On your bed, a girl with long brown hair lies, asleep, in clear pain. Everyone talks about what to do--the miasma is consuming her body, they say, and nobody has been able to figure out a way to save her. At this rate, she'll surely die...and it won't be long.

Your friends mean so much to you. Thanks to them, slowly but surely, you've begun to feel like more than just the seventh replica of the fon master, a thing in the skin of a beloved boy.

You owe them everything, so you can't keep this to yourself.

I know of a way that we can save her, you say, but there isn't time to explain. Anise runs into the room, panicked, and grabs you by the hand. Saying it's an emergency, she pulls you out before the others can follow.

Before you know it, you're face-to-face with the Grand Maestro. There he is, once again, regarding you like an insect. He beckons you both to come, and you know...you know. There's no use in fighting this. It's time to read the Planetary Score.

Your friends catch up with you and demand to know what Anise is doing, but as she distracts them, Mohs grabs you by the collar and shoves you forward. Your mouth tastes like metal as you let him drag you down...down...

All the way to the Fonstone hidden deep inside the Mt. Zaleho volcano. Back to where you started, back to where the other yous were thrown, alive. It's your turn. Maybe it was always meant to be this way.

Anise and Mohs linger behind you as you press your hands to the Fonstone and read its contents. The words flow through your body and pass through your lips: war, disease, destruction, death, and ruin. The world is over. The world will fall. There is no hope left, not for any man, woman, or child--

Luke's hands pull you back and away. You can feel your body breaking. He begs you to stop, but you keep going, one final thing, one he deserves to know: he can stop it all. You fall and he catches you, cradling you in his arms, watching your face. You're so weak you can't feel an inch of your body.

This was my final reading of the Score for you, Luke. A single path among your many possible futures. I don't expect you to use it...but this is the only way I could help.

His voice breaks. He tells you that you've always helped, and that you'll always keep helping. Your smile falls. Why is he so sad? He knows what you are. Knows that there are others.

Please don't look at me like that, you beg. I have plenty of replacements.

Don't say that--it isn't true! The other replicas aren't you, they don't know me!

You don't understand.

You don't understand.

You don't...you try...you don't have time. You call Tear over and take her by the hand, absorbing the miasma from her body into yours. She tries to protest, but you don't let go.

This was always the only way...and now, you're dying. Now, you can finally pay them back for all that they've given you. All the smiles, all the warmth, everything.

The poison rips through you as your body continues to deteriorate from the inside out. Something strange is happening. There's a knot in your throat, and you feel what's left of your life dragging out into an impossible length. You know that there's so much you'll never get to experience. There's so many feelings in your heart you just don't understand, that you haven't learned, will never learn.

And it hurts, how badly it hurts, what you won't have.

Anger, you've never felt anger.

Love, you've never known love.

Life, have you ever had it, really? Have you truly known?

You want to live, you want to live, more than anything, you truly want to live.

Tear, Jade, Guy, Natalia, Mieu...Luke.

Anise.

As you fade to nothing, as Luke holds you so tightly, you know that there's only one precious moment left for you here, and if you can have nothing else that you want, you at least want to see her again. You want to speak to her again. You want to see her smile, and laugh, and you want to tell her...

You want to tell her...

You have to tell her, this is the last chance, everything you've always--

The memory stops here.]

1/2 i give up

[melancoffeea]

[The sky is blue and bright . . . and yet so dull. Where you once marveled at the sight of its majestic vastness, you now smile sardonically as you pull your hood over your eyes. You may be free, but this realm of bountiful islands suspended in the skies has no place for you.

You’ll burn it down, you decide. And upon the ashes, you will create a heavenly realm of your own. For that, you’ll need power—and an archangel’s power lies in his wings.

You steal the wings of the archangels who preside over the elements, disrupting the balance of nature and sinking islands across the skydoms. The archangel of fire, Michael, dares to mention the supreme primarch during your ambush, so you kick her while she’s down to shut her up; the mud and blood that cake her face give you a twisted sense of delight, but you don’t linger there for long. Your sights are set higher than she can see.

Earth, wind, and fire. You miss your chance to steal the power of water, but you’ve accumulated enough power to rival that of a god—to overpower Lucifer, if you so choose.

So why has he not descended to confront you yet?

Then everything goes wrong. The archangels enlist the aid of mortals and other primal beasts to weaken you, and the raging battle that follows ends in your inexplicable defeat. Drained of your stamina and energy, you plummet onto the nearest island. The wings you’ve stolen return to their rightful owners, and you are weak again. You find yourself at the mercy of the archangels, who declare that your judgment shall be writ by none other than the supreme primarch.

The next series of moments is a blur. You feign remorse, then shove the young captain of the crew—little more than a child, even by human standards—off the cape of the island as a sacrifice to break the seal on Pandemonium and release the primals hungering for violent justice. Raphael, the archangel of wind, restrains you with a look of disapproval amid your deranged laughter. He asks why you drag this out. You answer that you want the world that doesn’t need you to burn. Gabriel, the archangel of water, is disgusted by your infantile raving, but you don’t care. You’re simply here to watch everything that Lucifer loves, die.

But somehow, the mortal survives, and the seal on Pandemonium remains. A cold fear grips you.

In a ray of light, Lucifer appears from above. Your heart pounds when he speaks, only for the old wounds in your heart to flare up upon learning that he was responsible for holding the seal intact. All this time, he knew what you were scheming and chose to ignore you; you weren’t worth the confrontation.

No matter what you do, he won’t look your way.

You lash out. All you ever wanted was just one person to tell you that you matter, you say in a shaky voice. The rest of the world can hate you, and you’d still be happy. But such a person doesn’t exist. No one will acknowledge a deplorable wretch like you, who only knows how to destroy everything that's good.

When Lucifer responds to your tirade, he does so with a pinch in his brow. He asks your forgiveness for not noticing your feelings earlier.

“Your purehearted words would always instill me with such tranquility,” he adds, referring to the taboo past between the two of you, and your heart stops. You're more afraid now than you've ever been in your long, pointless existence.

You tell him that you don’t believe his lies, that it’s too late to make amends. Despite your strong words, desperation creeps into your voice as you shout yourself hoarse: “Hate me! Destroy me! Punish me! If you forgive me, then my last 2000 years will have been . . . ”

For nothing. All your feelings, your time in imprisonment—senseless, like everything about you.

Lucifer cuts you off, claiming partial responsibility for your rampage. He beckons for you and you gasp his name when you feel yourself being undone. You're powerless to resist his judgment, even though there are so many things you wish to say.

In an instant, your body disperses into tiny particles of light. Your consciousness is fragmented, then lulled into a deep slumber as you’re brought back into Lucifer’s core. It ends before you realize what's happened. Just like that, you cease to exist.

It’s over.]

[melancoffeea]

[That he gets any sleep is a miracle, and it certainly isn't restful. Even in sleep, he can't seem to escape a certain level of torment.

(But that's just what he deserves.)

This time, he snaps awake, his body jerking upright the instant he regains consciousness. What was a burning sting on his palm now feels distant and numb as he clenches his fists around their shared blanket. Beads of sweat dot his temples, and he struggles, wide-eyed to remember how to breathe. Overwhelmed by the pain and yearning before the dream's abrupt end, he makes nary a sound.

What time is it? This is a natural awakening. It can't be time for the investigation yet . . . ]

[fragileprophet]

[It's over...it's over...so why is he awake again?

Ion's already coiled on his side, facing away from Sandalphon as he comes to. He's never felt anger before. Was that what that was?

No, not really. It wasn't anger at all, was it. It was just so lonely, so desperate, so wanting. A call, a plea, to just please be seen...to be heard.

Ion doesn't want to fade away. He doesn't want Sandalphon to fade away. He clenches his eyes shut again as he feels his lashes grow wet, and covers his mouth with a hand.

If everyone must die, why must they seem to die so suddenly, without a chance to find the things they so desperately crave? If life is so beautiful, so fleeting, why is it so unfulfilling?

In the end, are they doomed to always feel so separate, so alone, so in need?]

[melancoffeea]

[When Sandalphon regains the ability to breathe, it isn't a cleansing breath that he takes. There's a knot in his throat and he lets out a convulsive gasp in a pitiful effort not to cry.

Death. So much death. His (Ion's) death, that boy's—Sandalphon doubles over and buries his face in his hands, tugging on his hair. His shoulders tremble.

He doesn't know whether to cry or to laugh. He can't tell if these many emotions are just his, or a sick mixture of his wretchedness and Ion's sorrow. Something in him feels like it's about to snap.]

[fragileprophet]

[It takes Ion another moment--he's not sure how long, exactly--before he's able to shake himself just enough out of the roiling emotions of the dream to realize that Sandalphon's also awake. He quickly rubs his eyes and sits up, whirling around to look at him.]

You're still...you're still here.

[It's enough to make him want to cry again. What he sees renders in his brain in groggy, disjointed thoughts. His posture, his silence, what he might have seen--what's even left?

But Ion reaches for his arm with both of his hands, wanting to hold on, wanting to make sure that he's really there, that he's not alone, that he's alive, they're alive.]

I'm...I'm so...

[Happy? Glad? No, that's such a dramatic oversimplification that he can't even say it. It's so much more than that. So much that he doesn't even have a word.]